


Within Two Weeks

by CVD



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Slow Burn, Struggle, sarcastic erik and sassy christine with a shitton of snark in-coming, tags will update with story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CVD/pseuds/CVD
Summary: Is it possible to convince someone to fall in love with you in two weeks?A re-telling of the days Christine had spent with Erik, where he learns nothing is easy when it comes to love or that little soprano. He makes her life hard, so she repays the favor. She's crafty, but will it be enough to get through him? They play their lives like chess, and she's better at the game then he anticipated. With no more illusions of an angel, will he be able to gain her trust again?
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Locked

She hated it there, he knew. Those little favors she did him, smiling, seeming personable, coming from her room to eat by his side, he knew it was all a lie. It was a beautiful lie and one he'd gladly live in if he weren't so painfully aware of how her eyes darted across the room, seeking an escape when she thought he wasn't looking. But he couldn't blame her; it wasn't her choice to be there, after all.

Erik's head lulled back and hit the couch behind him, his eyes closing slowly as the dark ceiling above began to swim in and out in a haze. Mechanically, he set the needle to the side and pushed the little black briefcase to the point where something clattered by his feet. He couldn't care, not right now, and what a blessed feeling that was!

The only light in the room was the small candle off to the side, nearly burnt out by that hour. It illuminated the little side table by the stock of flowers he purchased for Christine— gods that was a stupid idea. The look she'd given him, too. He desperately tried to please the girl, to be a gracious host, but as their days continued, he could feel he was losing her.

The man huffed something that might have been a laugh had the morphine not already hit; Christine was never his.

The all too familiar heaviness in his chest only sank deeper, and Erik breathed in a slow, steady breath. The candle continued to melt away, becoming short and fat as his mind soon wandered to other blissful matters, but his thoughts always came back to Christine.

Christine, who had been sitting close to the door in the library, listened carefully for noises she could not hear; there were no footsteps, no voices, or music. More then an hour had passed by that time, and while she widdled most of that time away by reading, the silence had become curious.

Ayesha jumped down from her post atop one of the giant bookcases, down to the couch, and trodded closer by her side before she rubbed her long and pretty body against the woman. The cat peeked under Christine's arm; she thought she was looking at her accusingly.

"You can judge me later," she whispered, still spinning the pin which once held up her fringe around in the keyhole. This could be her chance, if not for escape, then a step closer to it, in the least.

Her heart thumped loudly, and every small groan the house made would startle the woman. Thinking _he_ had returned, she'd crawl backward on the heel of her palm, and pull a nearby book to her chest as if that would fool her captor. There was only so long she could play victim, however. She could only imagine how worried Mamma Valerius would be, and Raoul—

_SNAP!_

Christine pulled the pin from the lock and looked in dismay at the bent metal. Ayesha meowed up at her, sensing her frustration, and butted her head against the woman’s hand. She sighed heavily and collapsed her body into the cat's fluff, bundling up the Siamese to her chest; she was her one comfort through all this, even if she hated being held.

Ayesha struggled after a few seconds, a small trill escaping her throat before she managed to wriggle from Christine's arms.

'This is fine,' she reassured herself. Stuffing the pin into a fold in her dress, Christine pulled another from her hair. One down, twenty more to go.

By the time the door had finally creaked open, the house was as black as pitch. The cat trotted out first, followed by the woman who poked her head from the library with a candle held in hand.

"Ayesha!" Christine whispered and then glanced hesitantly over her shoulder— if she wasn't able to get her back into the library before the Angel returned... Ayesha didn't care, however, and the woman saw the cat's tail held high as she turned the corner just as she began to take chase.

Rounding the corner, Christine then came to an abrupt stop. Everything was black. She was standing at the edge of the world, and nothing was in front of her or behind her. It was only Christine and the wall, which she made sure to keep her hand on. She extended the candle, but there was only the carpet in front of her feet— then there came a jingling sound farther ahead.

"Ayesha," Trying her best to keep her voice quiet, Christine dared a few steps forward, "Ayesha, please."

She looked like a ghost, traveling the halls. Her candle would often catch a flash on the walls within that pale light where portraits hung, doors stood, tables sat. The house had never felt so immense and haunted. It was like a crypt, where the dead would be surrounded with possessions and trinkets of their liking. And the Angel, she came to notice, was a lover of many frivolous items.

Christine was still looking for the cat, her hand never leaving the walls and traveling across the smooth surface, when one of the many doors had creaked open. It startled her— foolishly —but the girl pressed her palm against it and pushed it open. "Ayesha?" She called again.

A muffled jingle answered her, and she imagined the cat jumping from one object on top of another. She'd never been in that room. Truthfully, however, she's never been in many places outside of the one given to her and the library. And this room, like the halls, was a yawning void. She swore the walls looked black in the dark, and on her first step in, papers crumbled under-foot. It was sheet music, written in red ink, but it was too dark to tell what it was from.

She took another step in with care but startled and turned quickly when many lights jumped to life over her shoulder. Gold, silver, jewels, and many other shining objects hung on the walls, intricate and beautiful from jewelry to daggers, all reflecting the candle's flame at her. It was a treasure hoard, none seeming to belong to one region or culture. The knife caught her interest in particular and reaching up to touch the wicked blade, Christine's hand stopped short when there came the sound of something moving behind her.

It was something living, fabric moved against fabric— it was too large to be Ayesha —and a person groaned then sighed. In one breathless moment, Christine thought, perhaps, she wasn't the only captive there. Everything in her told her to run, but while she wished to fear had rendered her frozen.

Her eyes were blown wide, staring into the darkness, she quickly grabbed the dagger and turned with her back to the wall, clattering the decorations there. If it were the Angel, he'd be upon her now, angry and...and she wouldn't dwell on the thought, but she knew he wouldn't like it very well that she was out of the library. And so she held the candle out, blade held close to her chest, outward and ready for attack. But then...nothing; silence.

Damn the cat, she wanted to say and were it any other moment she'd listen to that instinct. Yet a voice which only became more sinister with her stay whispered, 'And what will the Angel do if he finds out we can escape?' a shiver ran up her spine, 'Kill us?'

The silence was terrifying, so quiet she wanted to swear at how loudly it made her drumming heart sound. Taking another step forward, slower this time, her voice warbled as she called, "Ayesha," mouth now dry.

The candle cast long, ugly shadows across the walls, terrible shadows that loomed in a frightening manner that reminded her of _him_. A bouquet of roses scared her, perched on top of a very tall stand— she recognized those flowers.

That was when the groan came again, far too close and rattling like death; a word hung on its morbid breath, but Christine, too startled, gasped and turned fast on her heel. Candle-arm stretched outward, she caught the flash of eyes, yellow and bright like Ayesha's in the dark, but embedded in an expressionless black mask.

If it weren't for the eyes, she'd have thought it was only a pile of meticulously placed clothes folded over the couch, set there to scare her. But it was the Angel, watching her but unseeing, his gaze glassy and dead as he blinked slowly, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

Christine stared in awe and horror at this man, her captor, who barely seemed capable of moving when she was so used to hiding in his shadow, seeing the power he'd wear on his shoulders, the pride held in his gleaming eye; for once, he looked like a man.

Still, with shaking hands, she only tightened her grip on the dagger, her face blanched, mouth opened and looking for words or to scream. Nothing came from her, and they watched each other, unspeaking and unmoving.

It wasn't until she heard a bell that life began to move again. Another pair of yellow eyes reflected on the couch next to the man's head, and Ayesha's padded the cushion with her front paws before lying on the precarious headrest.

Christine's figure was hazy in his eyes, illuminated beautifully in the light, but looking more like a ghost in Erik's drug-addled state; he knew it was her. He could be half-mad and foaming at the mouth, but he would always know Christine.

And she came to him as a frightening mess, pale locks that looked white in the darkness hanging in her face and around her shoulders with a fierce look in her eye. She had something in her hand he couldn't wholly focus on, and she mouthed words that wouldn't register.

He couldn't move his head as she rounded the couch, but followed her spectral-like form with his eyes. With how heavy and weak his body felt, he wondered, bitterly, if she were there to take him away to the next beyond, and this was the time he'd gone too far. Logically, he knew that wasn't the case, yet logic was never a close confidant to an addict.

They both heard something crunch and peered down to the sound.

Christine stepped away from the broken glass that shattered under her shoe and glanced from the paraphernalia scattered on the floors and back to her captor. No reaction; he only breathed slowly and closed his eyes to the light. The man was no threat to her, not here, not now. He was intoxicated; if she had to wager, he wouldn't remember she was there once his head had cleared.

This was the perfect opportunity to look for a key.

Grabbing Ayesha in one hand, the cat fussed and struggled in Christine's arm, only to jump out and flick her tail indignantly. At some point, the man's eyes had started to follow her again, and she couldn't stop staring at him either. He looked dead, and were it not for those moments he'd blink slowly, she would think that he was. He was so still, barely seeming to breathe, dressed much as a corpse would be in their wake.

Christine only found a little relief when she rounded the man and could no longer meet his gaze; that was when she set to searching for another candle to light.

The girl soon discovered that it was a music room of some sort, a treasure room, even. It was immense, enough to hold an organ on one side and, stranger yet, a coffin on the other. Sheet music was scattered everywhere, from the floors, a little table beside the couch, strewn on chairs, and mounted in piles upon piles. Even more, the baubles which hung by the entrance extended to the rest of the walls, each telling a story of a different place if she only had the time to question it or its owner.

At first, she was too scared to turn her back towards the man, but it was a little easier when the room was lit. Ayesha stayed faithfully by his side and soon fell asleep as Christine carefully rummaged through what she could manage. It was a wonder even he could find anything, nothing seemed to have any order, existing in the same chaos he was so fond of.

Time passed, yet she couldn't say how much. There was no clock in the room, but judging by the candle, she was becoming anxious. She found nothing. There were no keys, and like the rest of the house, no windows. It was more of a tomb than she realized. Yet, there were locks on the doors-- he'd lock her in her room, lock her in the library, and being the clever man he was she wouldn't doubt there were more locked doors beyond that. She even checked the coffin yet, still, nothing.

And that was when a terrible thought began to linger on her mind.

She was setting the last book back to its place when she turned her head, looking to the black figure still lying in that same position on the couch. He could be faking, or he could be dead, both were horrible ideas and, even while she kept the dagger close, Christine wasn't sure she'd be able to use it. Still, holding the intricate blade outward once more, she slowly stepped around the couch and peered side-ways to the man there.

Like Ayesha, the man was now sleeping. She could barely see his thin chest rise and fall with each breath, but he was just as frightening to look at in the dark as he was in the light. She came in closer, taking in the man thoroughly, waiting for the moment his eyes would fly open, and he'd tear the dagger from her hand.

Christine stopped by his side, and Ayesha startled awake with a trill, looking at her with half-lidded eyes before lowering her head on the man's hand again.

The elegant coat he would have otherwise worn was folded carelessly over the back of the couch he slept on, and that was the first thing Christine checked. She was careful searching the pockets, patting down the inside then out twice over only to find nothing of use. There was a very thin twine of chords wrapped in on itself in one of the pockets, and she a passing idea of tying her captor with it but decided the risk was too considerable in the end and put it back.

Next, even more delicately than before, she placed her hand on the man's bony chest, his concave mid-section, the side of him where she thought a key might be hidden in his waistcoat, but there was nothing. She tentatively prodded the area on his trousers where pockets would be, but there was also nothing. And that was when she saw it, on her knees in front of the man. Around his neck, hidden by the cravat which lay undone, was the slight imprint of something under his collar.

Christine inched closer, one hand on the armrest his arm laid limp on while her other held the dagger even tighter. The man was still sleeping, unflinching when the couch groaned under her hand's weight.

She used the dagger to lower his collar, but the button there caused her to pause. Now she could see there was a chain around his neck, gold, and glinting on top of the many scars that were scattered there, all jagged and deep, but white and seemed many years old. She also noted that further up were angrier, red patches of skin, irritated from where the mask rubbed. The mask didn't fit so perfectly, even while it covered the entirety of his face, there was something...odd. It didn't sit right. And from those holes where his eyes were, she never noticed how sunken they looked, dark and sickly almost. It must have just been the manner he was lying, it shifted the mask oddly is all. Yet, stories of the ghost which haunted the opera suddenly began to spin through Christine's mind.

The Phantom, they said, looked like Death itself. He was little more than a skeleton with thin, yellowed skin stretched over bone, and like the Reaper, his face was the last you saw before taking your soul.

Now, she couldn't shake how the Angel looked more like a corpse than a living man-- though she knew he was a man. Yet even while knowing this, in his sanctuary of music, to her, he was an Angel of Death.

In a breathless moment, Christine slowly raised the chain around the man's neck by the hook of her finger. The very end caught at the collar for a second, but in the next, she pulled a key. It was small, glimmering in the many lit candles and black, like everything else on the man.

Her heart was pounding again, her fingers quivering as she took care to pull the chain over his head. As if sensing her departure, Ayesha half-purred and meowed, wide awake and looking up to Christine with large blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," Christine mouthed and touched the cat's cheek, which she leaned into. If she could bring Ayesha with her, she would.

Taking up the candle again, Christine made a mad dash for those black halls. She felt her way around blindly and tried each door with the key. Everything was locked; every single door. For a moment, she thought she was making circles in the dark, working the same doors over and over, and then the woman believed she must have missed one somewhere, which started her trek back. She ended up in the same music room, with Ayesha staring at her, tail flicking. And so she went back down the halls, with the cat following closely at her heels that time.

It was all locked. And Christine was desperate when she began to see the light from the music room beginning to come into vision again, angry and frustrated tears threatened to brim her eyes that she quickly blinked away. There was something she was missing somewhere, but she just didn't know what or where!

On that third try, striding faster to find the elusive door, Christine began to worry that maybe the key went to something else entirely. It was small, after all, smaller than keys were when they belonged to doors-- but she wouldn't allow herself to doubt, not when she'd come so far. If she had to try all the locks three more times, she would.

Christine wiped a tear ready to fall with the corner of her sleeve when something caught her peripheral. Fear struck her— she swore she saw a face —but in a breath of air, the candle was put out.

Cold seized her; she felt as if her knees would give out, and her entire body shook to the point that she had to press her back against the wall behind her. Christine held the dagger out, dropped the candle, felt wax splatter at the hem of her dress, and heard Ayesha jingle away.

And then, his voice: "You have something that belongs to me."


	2. Only Erik

"Did I scare you?"

Christine looked behind her-- it was only a wall, but it sounded like he was behind her. "Turn on the light!" Her voice cracked, yet she seemed far more confident than she felt.

"Why don't you find it yourself." His voice sent chills up her spine, "Obviously, you're keen on snooping about anyway, why should I get in your way?"

She didn't move at first and turned the blade towards every small noise that creaked and skittered. Engulfed in that darkness, she was a blind woman; her unseeing eyes were blown wide and searching, frozen like a cornered animal.

And then the Angel's voice came again, softer and inches from her ear: "Run."

Christine yelped, stumbled a few paces sideways, and swatted with her hand at the empty air. Then when he spoke again, "That's what you what you wish to do, isn't it?" his voice slithered around her throat like a snake, whispering from one ear to the other, "Run as hard and fast as you'd like, and I will still find you, I will always be there with you, as promised. Remember, Christine? And I am a man of my word."

Again she shouldered where his voice seemed to be, but there was nothing there. The woman began to shake; she didn't answer, yet the silence spoke louder than words ever could.

Then, Christine finally began to side-step, always keeping her back to the wall as she felt and walked blindly, feeling anchored to that living world by touch alone. The world only existed in feeling and sound then, and she swore she heard footsteps echoing hers, and every time she stopped or tripped over the carpet, it would pause.

Christine had no idea where to go next, what to do, or what to expect, all she knew was that she couldn't stay there, not in the dark with him. And her heart pounded, never easing through her journey, even when a distant light began to come in view. It was so dull, she nearly thought it was a trick of the mind, but it came nearer and nearer, and with it emerged a sliver of hope.

The woman left the wall, quickened her pace, half-running when the footsteps came again, heavier, storming up behind her. And then something seized her wrist.

Christine screamed, twisted awkwardly as the invisible hand pulled her back, legs giving out under her, and she would have fallen if the vice-grip didn't have her half-suspended. She struggled like a wounded animal now captured, mad, and frantically pulling to no avail. The hand was so cold, unnaturally thin, and in that near nonexistent light, his fingers looked like white bone around her wrist. And then her gaze lingered upwards, and she couldn't say whether it was her imagination, but she'd swear she could see two yellow eyes gleaming in that darkness.

"Have you forgotten already? No need to be so hasty, Christine. Here, _before you hurt yourself,_ " In one sharp motion, the invisible hand tore the dagger from her fingers, "We wouldn't want there to be any accidents. _Now, go._ "

Christine managed to find her footing the second she was released and sprinted for the dim light. "Run along, back to your room," she heard him call, tauntingly.

Her heel slipped on the carpet as she turned the corner and the woman ran into the wall, but used the momentum to push herself forward. The music room was still open, lighting her way as she dashed by, and she continued down those halls that felt too long, too constricting like a nightmare where the end would never come.

The library quickly came into view and was a blur as Christine raced by, then glanced over her shoulder to the blackness that permeated the halls. She couldn't see him, but she knew the Angel was still there; she felt his eyes watching her.

Then, at the farthest corner of the house, when the vague outline of a door that seeped lights through the cracks began to come closer, the woman launched herself at it. She threw open the door, then closed it fast behind her, and pressed against the wood with her ear to the surface, breathing heavily as the tears freely flowed down her cheeks.

And then she cried, with a hand pressed hard to her mouth to stifle herself.

What was she going to do?

Christine crumbled against the door, blotting the light at the floor, where Erik glowered from down the hall, silent, with the dagger still in his hand. He could hear those sharp intakes of breath if he listened carefully, a shutter now and again.

And he wondered similar things to the woman: _what was he going to do?_

Cursing, Erik turned to the music room. He was glad now, in the least, that old habits drove him to lock all the doors. It would have been dangerous if she'd escaped-- truly dangerous to her life, not knowing the catacombs. And if he lost her...

Anger quickly crumbled, giving away to the pain and anxiety which heated his blood; if she escaped, it'd surely mean her death. While her little stunt had cut him, Erik knew the grief of finding her body washed up in the tunnels would send him to his own watery grave. Since the beginning, he knew he should prepare for the day, Christine would try to escape, but for it to happen on his first slip-up?

He was still dizzy, the morphine which rushed through his veins beat strong, which caused the world to tip around him, and objects that he knew stood still shifted through his narcotized stare. Mounting the dagger on the wall again, he couldn't decide whether it was straight or not, while the two ornate necklaces it sat between squirmed like golden serpents.

Aside from all the lights, nothing else was out of place. Waking up was a startling experience. He didn't notice the missing dagger at first. It was after bounding for the library, half lucid, like an oaf barely capable of walking, that he knew that Christine had escaped. And if he hadn't come back to see if the skeleton key was still in its rightful place, he might have never noticed the missing blade.

The key was untouched in a little black bag behind the door.

Erik was very aware that it would take her some time. This would only be a temporary issue, but one day he'd find a way to convince her that she could call this place home; he had to believe that. Yet these past three days... damn it all.

Were he not so on edge he'd cloud his mind again with morphine, but now he was frightened. He turned to the needle in a moment of weakness, because he needed that second to forget the hate and fear in Christine's eyes. All he wanted was to dull himself because he was so afraid of losing her, yet that nearly made it happen!

The fear he felt tangled itself in a knot around his throat, much like a hangman's noose, tightening with each day, but it was not his hand that held the lasso this time. And while Christine didn't seem capable of wielding a dagger, he wouldn't doubt that she would be his executioner. Whether it was to live by her side or die by her hand, he'd be her willing prey, as long as she was there. That was all that mattered; keeping Christine was all that mattered.

He knew he couldn't allow himself to slip again. Christine didn't deserve to see the uglier side of him, whether it be his face or his words... People have never been his strong suit-- women even less so. But now, the woman who unknowingly bore his very soul in her hands wept because of him. This was his greatest mistake.

Closing his eyes, Erik slowly pressed his head against the door frame. He regretted his words. It made him sick. He would have preferred if she stabbed him; he deserved far worse, but had she plunged the blade through his heart, he might have praised her for the ambitious start on his journey to making amends.

Dejected, Erik hadn't noticed Ayesha's presence until he heard the little voice chirping at his heel. He peered down to her, eyes infinitely weary, meeting the cat's two blue orbs that gleamed like a cloudless sky. She chirped again; she was hungry, and he wouldn't doubt that Christine would be soon as well.

His heart still felt heavy, but that was what he needed to straighten again. He would have to check the library first, see what damage had been done to serve for Christine's escape.

Putting out the light, he made sure to lock the doors before his investigations. Ayesha never left his side, bouncing on each step anxiously on their way to the library.

Similar to his room, there was nothing too peculiar. Christine had done nothing so brash as breaking the door off its hinges or smashing through the doorknob itself; there were only books strewn across the floors in little piles where she liked to sit, but nothing more.

Stepping inside, Erik took a knee by the door and began examining the lock-- and that was when he knew.

Ayesha meowed insistently, climbing on top of his knee as he turned the handle experimentally.

Now there was a surprise. 

Closing the door and taking the skeleton key from his pocket, Erik attempted bolting the entrance but found he could still open it as if it were never secured at all. She broke the inner latch during her shoddy attempts at lock picking, yet he was taken aback. Christine had never shown any prowess in the art of thievery. In fact, while there were times he'd spy her colleagues either shirking their duties or pinching what they'd believe would go unmissed, he never witnessed the girl perform a questionable act of any kind.

So, where would she have learned such a skill? Furthermore, why?

Pulling him from his thoughts, Ayesha gave another cry, louder and longer that time as she paced circles around the man.

As amusing as the thought was, he'd have to find his answers later, he decided. The door, however, was another matter. Who's to say when he could have it fixed, the lock was useless now and not something even he could mend. In the least, it'd take a few days to procure a replacement. And what that would mean until then for Christine and her visits there...

Again, Erik cursed to himself. He was already out of her favor; the last thing he needed now was to give her more reason to resent him.

Ayesha was very eager that evening to be fed, hounding Erik the entire time he prepared her and Christine's dinner. So she was fed early, while he set the table, leaving Christine's under a platter to stave off potential thieves who had paws and were also fond of cooked meat.

When everything was ready, Erik knew he was still ill-prepared to face the girl. He wouldn't fault her if she had the doors barricaded or told him off, and yet he dreaded the thought.

He was hesitant at first and stood by her door, listening moments longer than needed before he finally knocked.

There was no answer at first, and for a moment, he thought she might have sworn silence against him before there came a soft, "Yes?"

A rare feeling of unease gripped him then, and all potential answers flew out the window. While Christine was a kind girl, even he knew it would be asking too much to come out on his behalf, so instead, he said, "...Ayesha has started without you, and I wondered if you would still be joining her this evening?"

Again, there was a silence that lasted far too long; his heart began to beat loudly, dread flaring quickly, though, to his utter relief, she said, "I'll be a moment." And after a time, there came movement beyond the door.

She said nothing else, yet he waited there like a hapless fool on the off-chance she might. However, when he was only met with more silence, he slowly took a step back and waited for her in the dining room.

Christine was in no rush to visit him; while the Angel would use the cat as an excuse, she knew it was a gentler means to invite her to come out of the room. Since he dragged her down to wherever they were, the dining room was the only space they'd share each other's company. It was an unsettling replica of normalcy, sitting with the man for dinner. It wandered into the realm of uncanny and gave her no comfort, given the circumstances.

She'd never see him eat. Most of the time, she'd find him with a glass of wine, but nothing more. And it was no surprise, with how thin the man was; if he were sustained on music alone, she wouldn't be shocked. Yet, she knew he didn't abstain from food because of some personal preferences alone. It was the mask. She never witnessed him drinking either, but knew he wouldn't indulge if it meant removing the mask. It was a crucial detail that he said he would never go without, and it was impossible to eat or drink when the whole facade covered the entirety of his face.

And as expected, when Christine had finally come to the dining room, she found the man sitting at the table, a half-empty glass of wine by his left hand but no plate in front of him.

She went to the only other chair there quickly, her head tilted down so her mess of hair she still hadn't bothered to fix could hide part of her face. Christine glanced up to the man only briefly but was quick to lower her gaze.

The man was frozen. Erik was instantly proved otherwise when he thought he could ignore the guilt he bore for at least the hour or so while they sat together.

There were no more tears, but her eyes were still pink. Her face and nose were a touch swollen and flushed from earlier tears, and neither commented on this. Christine even made a point to remain silent when picking up her utensils, cutting her meat in smaller slices, welcoming that tense air that fell between them.

Ayesha had long finished eating by that time and was lying under the table somewhere, licking her paws in a content manner.

Glancing up to the man, Christine watched as he simply swirled his wine glass, the pupils of his yellow eyes only two pin-pricks. While she was not easily impressed, it seemed her captor was more than an extraordinary musician, but he was a high functioning addict.

The Angel caught her gaze, causing the woman to slowly stop chewing. They held each other's stare, but he was the first to talk.

"I would like to apologize for my behavior, it was abrupt and ill-tempered," he seemed to be struggling to find the words and set his glass down, "I want you to feel at home here, Christine. I've done a terrible job showing you this and an even worst host, I know, but if you tried to leave here--"

"Is this why you've served lamb tonight?" Her voice was still hoarse, and she had to clear her throat; she didn't look up from her dinner, "Should I guess that this lovely meal is part of your apology?"

"...If that's how you'd like to see it. I was hoping to offer something more or see if we could come to a compromise instead." He was desperate for her to just look up at him, "If a grocery list is a part of what would make you more comfortable, I can get you a pen."

Christine swallowed hard. Comfort was not what she wanted; comfort belonged to people who would stay living under that roof. She needed to escape. The woman made a point to ignore his comment and said, "What did you have in mind?"

He didn't seem to notice her shift in mood. Leaning back in his chair, the masked man began: "For one, it comes to my attention that I've never given you a proper tour of the house. I have an unbroken habit of securing my surroundings, though I'm not planning on keeping you locked to two rooms forever. I hope, eventually, you could make yourself at home here, thrive where you please."

"Within reason?" Christine added.

And the man dipped his head slightly. "For your safety. Not all rooms are studies and parlors, which is why they must remain locked." It didn't seem like he would elaborate.

Again, it sounded too much like she was going to be there to stay, "Do you keep many secrets?" Christine said, far too casual in hopes to divert the conversation away.

He shifted in a way that would have denoted unease, lulling his head from one side to the other. Yet, with some vestige of humor said, "Would you like me to answer honestly?"

"Something tells me I wouldn't."

"...Then, no. I'm an open book," a prickle of sarcasm.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"And stop me if I over-share, if you please," he continued, "I have the unfortunate habit of disclosing everything."

"No need," Christine spoke after a sip of wine; while her nerves had not eased much, his attempts to alleviate her tension was not wholly in vain, "it'd be nice to fill out the silence. It's very quiet down here."

"You get used to it. It's only irritating if you think about it."

"A bit of a challenge, when the _silence_ is almost _deafening._ "

The man curiously narrowed his eyes, silent for a beat, but answered her oxymoron in like: "Yet _alone together_ , the silence shouldn't be so loud."

She slowed, dabbing the side of her mouth with a napkin, and watched him for a second before saying, in turn, "I'm _terribly pleased_ you should think I'm a good enough conversational partner."

"It's my _unbiased opinion_."

"It's a _wise fool_ who decides to flatter a lady."

"Then lucky for us, I've never been one for empty praise. You're simply _overbearingly modest_ ," the man said.

Oxymoron for an oxymoron.

Christine rolled her tongue in her mouth, thoughtful, not entirely unaware of the slight pang in her chest as she nudged a square cut of meat on her plate with the tip of her fork. Then she said rather abruptly, "It seems we'll have to put up with each other for the moment, at least until one of us learns cat," looking up to him, her expression oddly serious.

And though she couldn't tell, the man was, indeed, confused. But if this were the path he must take for Christine to speak to him, "Ayesha has always been more of a listener," so be it.

"She's very good at it...remembers well, too."

The man scoffed, "I should hope not. Is that to say you two have been gossiping?"

"No," Christine shook her head, peering up at the man before saying with great care, "simply makes me realize how quickly I forget. And I hope you'd pardon me, sir, though it seems I've forgotten your name."

And that was when the realization hit. Christine only knew him as an angel-- and it was a very poor alter-ego which she was also now aware of. But, he never had the chance to introduce himself properly. Of course, when they would only communicate through a mirror, it was impossible, but now?

For the first moment, he sat there in silence, grappling over how he'd forgotten something small yet so significant. Then, he said, "Erik."

"Erik..." she trailed, expecting his surname.

"Only Erik."

And she nodded slowly; Erik. It saved her the uneasy feelings of only knowing him as an angel when that was the last thing she now saw him as. Yet, with practice niceties, she answered, "And, I'm Christine," fully aware her introduction was unneeded. He already knew far too much about her.

But he still bowed his head and said, "Christine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: this is a slow burn and character analysis  
> Me @ me: DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA
> 
> (chapters will come with frequency because I'm a lover of conflict and putting characters through Hell)


End file.
